


Say You're Sorry, Still

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Trevor Is Not Good To Himself, normal gta stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5106611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael wakes up in Trevor's trailer- in Trevor's bed- and realizes he's done something incredibly bad. He doesn't handle it well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Michael is incredibly hungover. He didn't think he could get this hungover anymore-- what the hell's the point of all those years of substance abuse if he still gets hangovers? He groans and shifts, sits up, and jerks in alarm when someone groans back.

His hangover is suddenly a pittance compared to the realization that he is naked, and in bed, next to an equally naked Trevor. It's not the first time they've been naked around each other, not by any means, but it's the first time he's woken like this feeling sticky and sated, the sheets between them stained with patches of--

Blood.

There's blood on the sheets. Not huge arterial someone-was-murdered-and-the-sheets-were-used-for-cleanup stains. Just a few spots and smears, like-- Michael immediately, instinctively shifts to check. He's not sore. He's not hurt anywhere, no nosebleed or fat lip or knife wound. It's not his blood.

Trevor moans, low and fitful, twitches, and Michael bolts from the bed. His pounding headache ebbs for just a second, then comes back with a vicious vengeance, and through it he blearily catches his memories of last night.

They're both drunk. Trevor is high-- on some drug or their latest job or both, who knows. Drunk and laughing and maybe getting kind of handsy like they always do when they're like this, together alone, and something snaps or unhinges or clicks together and suddenly they're on each other. Michael gropes Trevor's lean hips, his ass, thumbs riding the jut of his pelvis, while Trevor mouths at Michael's neck, squeezes his thighs, the give of his waist.

_Flash_ : Trevor leans in and tries to kiss him, and Michael grabs him, one hand on his shoulder and one gripping his jaw, shoves him down to the floor. Trevor's mouth opens, wet dark gleam in the poorly-lit room, catches Michael's thumb and bite-sucks until Michael yanks his hand away and goes for his fly.

_Flash_ : Trevor gags, chokes, tears in his eyes and cheeks red, but he doesn't pull off. He moans when Michael grabs his hair, sucks harder, fingers twitching against Michael's hips.

_Flash_ : Michael has Trevor by the hips, drags him to the bed and they land on top of each other, laughing. Michael rolls his hips against Trevor's thigh, his hip, his ass, groaning muffled into the other man's shoulderblade. Distantly, Michael is amazed he's able to get it up, after that much drinking, but he is, he's so hard he can barely focus. Trevor is fumbling with one hand, reaching for something, but Michael catches his wrist and pins it, his other hand going to his groin. Trevor turns his head to say, distorted but distinct, "Hang on, M, I gotta get the-" cut off in a grunt of pain when Michael doesn't listen, shoves in and Trevor's legs jerk and he gasps, "- _lube_ , Michael, let me get-" but Michael still isn't listening, doesn't want to listen, shoves Trevor's head down and-

Michael is shaking. He brings a hand to his mouth, afraid he might be sick, stumbles further away from the bed toward the door. He stoops to grab his clothes, yanking them on as he moves. Out the door. Down the steps. To the car, keys in his pocket, turning the ignition. Drive, drive quick as the door of the trailer creaks open, drive away into the pre-dawn light.


	2. Chapter 2

He gets home and paces the halls of his big empty house. A dozen times, he heads for the liquor cabinet, only to swerve away and drop his head into his hands, groaning miserably. He almost calls Franklin, but good god, that kid has had to deal with enough of their bullshit already. Hell, if Franklin finds out about what Michael did, he might beat Trevor to putting a bullet in Michael's brain. Maybe that's not such a bad idea… God, Michael feels awful. He reaches for the liquor cabinet again, turns away and drops onto his sofa. Some cut-off, coldly rational part of his brain notes that he fucked Trevor without a condom, so who knows what crazy hybrid disease he's got now. He should get tested. The much less rational, currently in-charge portion of his brain screams _Good_ , he deserves whatever pecker-rotting virus he catches. What is wrong with him? Just as things are going right again… Why can't he ever be right by Trevor? What is it about the two of them? He gets up and slams his fist against the wall a few times. It helps a little, but not much.

The door swings open, banging loudly. Michael freezes.

"Mikey!" Trevor sing-songs, slamming the door shut behind him and wheeling around to face him. "Light of my life, fire of my loins!" His voice is loud but shaky, on that thin border between manic and manageable that Michael has always somehow been able to recognize, and he's wearing the undershirt Michael left behind, which could be intentional or an accidental grab off the floor.

Michael holds his hands up defensively, already backing away, but Trevor's not armed and isn't exactly striding toward him with murderous intent. He's walking close to the wall, shoulders hunched, gait stiff and unhurried. He's barefoot beneath his sweatpants.

Michael lowers his hands slowly, like Trevor's a feral wolf that's somehow gotten into his house. "The hell you doing here, T?"

Trevor shrugs, hands in his pockets. There are bruises all over his wrists, his throat. It's hard to remember which ones were there already and which are from last night. "Figured I'd give you a couple hours to get over your crisis before I chased your ass down." He squints toward the kitchen. "You got any coffee?"

"Uh." Michael's brain is shutting down in the utter certainty that he is about to die. "Yeah, sure," he says on autopilot, leading Trevor into the breakfast area. He manages (somehow) to fumble the coffee pot out of its holster and pour them each a mug, adding cream and sugar and stirring. He's distantly amazed to find that he still remembers how Trevor likes his coffee, and Trevor seems equally surprised when he takes a sip, brows rising and eyes finding Michael's over the rim of his mug in something like delight.

Trevor plonks down behind the counter, legs splayed, and slurps at his coffee while Michael clutches his mug and tries to keep his hands from shaking. "Got the house all to yourself today, huh?"

Nod. Inarticulate noise of agreement.

"Hmm," Trevor rumbles, scratching low on his belly with his free hand. "Well, whatever will we do with all this free time, eh?" He shoots him that familiar, mad-eyed gaze, burning with challenge-- or invitation-- and for a second Michael's face flushes, his heart pounding with want. Trevor's brow pops up, his head tilting. "You okay? You seem kinda edgy over there."

"Yeah, sure," Michael tries to snap himself out of it, laughing nervously. "I was kinda expecting you to beat me to death and desecrate my corpse in some creative new way, that's all."

"If that's what you're into," Trevor says with a shrug and a leer. He downs the last of his coffee and stands, walking to the sink and rinsing the mug out, like a person with actual manners. It's surreal.

"Seriously. How are you not angry?"

"I'm always angry, Mikey. You'll have to be a little more specific."

"At _me_ ," he says, louder than he intended to.

Trevor looks at him in surprise. "Why, what'd you do now?"

"What'd I do- _what'd I do now?_ " Michael exclaims, throwing his arms up. "Last night!"

"What…" Trevor shifts, looking less and less confident. "What about last night?"

"We- I-" Michael pauses, voice lower but unsteady as he asks, "How much do you remember? From last night?"

More shifting. "Before or after we fucked?"

Michael chokes in shock, coughing hard enough to double over. He manages to catch his breath, slamming his palm on the counter and shoving his mug away from himself. "Christ, T!"

"What?" Trevor leans against the counter, looking simultaneously defensive and concerned.

"You can't just-- Jesus, that wasn't--" Michael runs a hand through his hair, gaze fixed on the counter. He pinches the bridge of his nose, steals a glance upward with a pained expression. "Do you seriously not get how fucked up this is?"

Trevor looks thrown for a loop. Then he scoffs, lip twisting wryly. "What, because you're still married? Mikey, if you try and tell me that was the first and only time you'd been unfaithful, you may never get me to stop laughin'." He giggles, and Michael recognizes it as the sign that his mood is slipping further and further into furious mania. The sound sets something off in him, ticks him over the edge too.

"God fucking _dammit_ , T!" He slams both hands down on the countertop, louder than Trevor's laughter, echoing through the house. He shoves away and goes storming out of the kitchen, ending up in the tv room, where he picks up his pacing from earlier.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Trevor follows him, of course he does, because he has absolutely no sense of self-preservation. Michael glares at him, unfairly.

Trevor's eyes are wide. He swallows. He looks young, suddenly, young and vulnerable, which is ridiculous. Gone is the edge of fervent insanity. "You mad, M?"

Michael makes a miserable sound. "Yeah, I'm mad. I'm fucking furious."

Trevor just looks at him, shuffling from one bare foot to the other, and Michael sighs and stops pacing to look at him.

"Why the hell do you think I ran off this morning?" He asks, slowly. 

Trevor shrugs and leans against the back of the couch, picks up some pricy knickknack from the coffee table and turns it over in his hands before letting it fall onto the rug. “Figured you were having your big gay I-fucked-my-friend meltdown. Why, is that not what you were doing?"

"No!" Michael sighs. "I mean, maybe a little, but mostly I was-- I was ashamed."

Trevor laughs, sharp and harsh. "Yeah, I get that reaction a lot the morning after."

"Wh- no! Trev, no, I meant ashamed of myself! For what I-- for how I acted." He raises his arms a little, hands held out like he’s about to— maybe touch Trevor, or push him away, or pick up the tchotchke from the carpet and put it back. He does none of those, lets his arms drop back down, and he watches Trevor push at the little statuette with his grubby toes until it rolls under the couch. 

“Okay,” Trevor acknowledges, tilting his head to one side. “I’ll admit I was pretty pissed when you left this morning, but that’s probably my own damn fault for expecting otherwise. You’ve done the dine-and-dash on tons of girls before and you never got ashamed of yourself then.”

“That’s— _that’s_ what upset you? Me leaving?” Michael is gaping at him again. Jesus, he does not understand how Trevor Philips’ mind works. ”I was-- you know it's not supposed to be like that, don't ya? What happened last night… you _bled_ , Trevor. That's not-- you shouldn't be _used_ to that." 

Trevor shrugs again. "Mikey, you're blowing this way outta proportion. So I bled, so what? It ain't the first time it's happened, not by a long shot."

"Christ," Michael mutters. This isn't working, nothing seems to be getting through Trevor's weird wall of adoration and self-loathing. Michael tries again anyway. "I mean, T, you didn't even get to…" He trails off, red-faced.

"Get to what?" Trevor peers at him. "What, come? Sure I did. Just cuz it wasn't at the same time don't mean it didn't count."

Michael's still just staring at him, shaking his head slightly, as the memory comes to him in hazy fragments: blinking in and out of his post-orgasm-plus-booze lethargy to feel the rickety bed shaking a bit, turning his head to see Trevor still sprawled, on his back now, legs spread with slick patches of dark and light on his thighs as he works a hand up and down his shaft. Quick short motions, biting his lip like he's trying to keep from getting too loud and his eyes are bright and there are still damp trails on his hollow cheeks and he's looking at Michael, caressing him with his gaze head to toe and somehow the whole sight inspires Michael to lean over and press a wet, messy kiss to Trevor's trembling thigh before he rolls back over and fades out to the sound of Trevor gasping sharply.

“Okay, so you came,” Michael says, still blushing. “That still doesn’t make… all of this… okay. Right?”

Trevor looks at him with an expression somewhere between bewildered and exasperated. “Mikey, why the hell would I know that answer to that question?”

It’s so plainly said, and it’s so sad and funny at the same time that it startles a laugh out of Michael. “Fuck, you’re right.”

 


End file.
